Arrogant
by quantumsilver
Summary: Okay but sorta she kind of is. Which is why they played so well together and continue to advance the boundaries of fanfiction, do KJ and Kashyk. An ancient, ancient revival.


**Arrogant**

**Disclaimer**: The characters in this story belong to Paramount, not me.

**Rating**: T for strong implications, mention of violence

**Notes**: The views expressed in this story do not necessarily reflect those of the author. In fact they definitely do not. This was written for my best friend, who accidentally introduced me to fanfic and still maintains certain strong viewpoints regarding Counterpoint, Kashyk, Janeway, Voyager, and fanfiction in general. If you can't stand to see Janeway humiliated or don't like dark fic, be an adult and don't read it. Reposted for KatLady, an epic persona and one you just can't say "no" to. Cause. Come on. KatLady!

* * *

I've taken the ship; it's mine.

We've set course for Herros Two, the largest (and most brutal) detention center in the entirety of Devore space.

My men have replaced the Federation crew, having become familiar enough with the systems by now to operate them without assistance. This ship, though small, will make a fine addition to our fleet. Or it will be stripped of its considerably useful technology and discarded with the other junk vessels the Imperium has impounded…

I cannot decide which I'd prefer. To see her face for either would be priceless. Her precious Voyager, the name spoken with such disgusting reverence, her strange blue eyes always glittering with pride whenever it came up in conversation – broken down, all traces of its former crew obliterated. The walls sterilized, liberated from the incessant paintings, wall-hangings and other vain possessions littering the offices and crew quarters of this ship. The computer's voice changed, speaking Devoran now, displaying Devoran symbols. Operating to achieve Devoran objectives. _Hunting telepaths_. Oh how it will destroy her!

Or and just as devastating – her precious Voyager, the fine vessel that has carried her loyal crew across tens of thousands of light years of space, floating permanently in space-dock. Clamped, immobile, to a dilapidated space station. Flightless, the engines removed and reassigned. The warp core gone the power sources cut. Grounded. Lifeless. Gutted. It would break her I think.

I laugh, slightly giddy in my stunning victory.

Not a complete victory maybe. I'll give her that. She managed to get the telepaths to safety and to keep me from destroying the Brenari wormhole. But Voyager is a fine little ship. The promotion still comes, and I make General. I've been recalled to the home world where I'll be able to live in luxury until the end of my days. A general's salary is generous.

Her crew is mine. They've been separated by all of the standard categories for sorting gaharay prisoners: sex, age, skill and rank. I've had them stripped and split into carefully divided groups of ten- all that can be crammed into one of our holding cells. We did try for eleven but upon losing three of them to massive energy burns (they kept bumping up against the restraining field it seems) had to relent and settle upon ten. Fortunately we have enough cells between the three ships under my command to house them all. They will be worth a fortune for their scientific knowledge alone, not to mention their potential usefulness as domestic slaves, laborers and test subjects for our scientists. The Imperium will make quite a sum selling them off – after they've had a few months in the Center to learn their new places in life. Each of the Voyager crew members will be sold for a rather handsome price in the end.

The senior officers are being held separate from the lower ranks. Separate from each other.

I've seen them in action, her senior staff, and I will not take the chance of allowing those seven devious creatures the benefit of their combined cleverness.

I do not count the chef among those seven. The Talaxian, I almost executed on the spot, remembering all too well the vile slop I was forced to ingest for three hellish days aboard this vessel. I settled for having his hands removed…while she watched. And when he screamed I had Prax remove his tongue as well, "As you obviously don't use it to taste anything you cook, anyway. If you did, you could never serve that filth as you do." I have to admit, I think those amber eyes leaked more tears at my insult to his cuisine than they did for the excruciating pain he'd suffered just beforehand.

The hologram's emitter has been confiscated, his program deleted. We have no use for a medic that treats only _gaharay_.

She is mine. Officially I have only to claim her and they will give her to me permanently, I know. Once she's been poorly interrogated by the proper intelligence officials… and that might be worth watching too.

I recline in her chair, victorious. She stands before me and the word "glare" wouldn't do the look she's leveling me with justice.

Her hair is in disarray. It pleases me. It's not a condition I've seen it in before, not even during those late hours spent "problem solving" in her mess hall. Her small pale forehead sports an ugly purple mark, long and rectangular. A bruise. And from the smirk on Prax's face, I'm certain I know how she got it. He has a special vendetta against her for some reason. Honestly I believe he resented the time I spent alone with her here, in this very office. He won't admit it but I'm fairly certain he's in love with me. I don't mincd really. Whatever will keep him in line…so long as he never attempts to touch me.

He shoves her down, sending her sprawling across the floor. She lands with a barely noticeable groan, rolling to protect her left side and again the smirk flits across Prax's features. I chuckle, imagining that I can only guess at the extent of the beating she has suffered at his hands.

I should chastise him, I know. As far as they are concerned, she is my exclusive property – merely touching her warrants death. But Prax has such few pleasures. I don't believe I could stand to begrudge him this one joy. "Leave us," I order, nodding toward the door he has so recently entered. He does and finally, Kathryn and I are alone.

She's silent as I tower over her, having arisen from her (my) chair to greet her. I haven't seen her since yesterday, when I forced her to watch me torture her Talaxian – while she could only desperately plead for his life. The sound of Kathryn Janeway actually begging for the mercy I was finally moved to bestow was nearly arousing in itself.

Before sending her back to her solitary confinement, I'd taken her on a little tour of the cellblocks where the rest of her pathetic crew is being housed. I had the three bodies carted out in front of her as well. And I thought her face had been white before!

She neither speaks nor attempts to rise from her prone position on the deck. I'm pleased – she _should_ know her place. And I am happy to be the one to show her that place. It is well past time she learned her true value.

I break the silence, unable to resist applying a commentary to this most climactic moment: it is the culmination of weeks of intense power plays, mind games and manipulation between us. Finally it ends – here, now. I've won.

"I'd untie you, Kathryn, but we both know you'd spend your remaining strength doing your utmost to cut my throat. And I _am_ rather fond of you in this position."

She only continues to glare.

As I kneel down beside her to haul her to her bare feet, I cannot resist running a hand fondly over her backside – mostly for display. I know that Prax and the others are watching this on their monitors just outside the ready room. And then I am crushing her small arm in my palm and turning her roughly to face me. My free hand moves to clear the unruly red tendrils of hair from her face. She stiffens noticeably, every muscle tensing beneath my touch. Her intense eyes fix upon mine and I can see the depth of the absolute hatred she makes no effort to disguise.

The look does nothing to cow me – rather, it amuses me. I laugh in her face, releasing her as I move back a few short paces and lean against the ledge of her desk.

Kathryn watches me reach for the cup beside me, the one I'd placed deliberately only scant moments before her arrival. I offer her none but she knows exactly what's in the mug. The bracing liquid I've (strangely) come to crave helps me to illustrate my silent point as it warms my tongue, teeth and throat – coffee is just one of many privileges the proud captain of Voyager will no longer enjoy.

She waits, refusing to look away from me, refusing to give me the satisfaction of averting her gaze.

Still, satisfied that we have understood each other, I set the cup back down and slide it out of the way. My smile, it seems, is now a permanent fixture on my triumphant face and my arms cross folding over my chest. _To business, then…_

"And now, Kathryn Janeway. What to do with _you_?" I allow my eyes to wander slowly and very obviously along the lines of her small, still-clothed frame. No detail is missed, no curve ignored, no part of her not scrutinized as I painstakingly ogle each and every inch of her. When at last I meet her eyes, it is impossible to mistake the sheer stoic martyrdom etched across her pale, alien features. Again, I'm moved to soft laughter.

She has been expecting this I know, from the moment I seized her ship. She's expected it and, perhaps in her own way, she has even been anticipating it. She says only one thing and it's in the form of an already defeated question – a nearly inaudible last, hopeless stab at a request for leniency.

"Will you let them go?"

I want to laugh again. I do and she shivers, I think. But then again, that could be due to the temperature of the room, which has been lowered several degrees to suit Devoran preferences. Probably if I'm honest with myself, it IS the coolness that has her shivering because the rest of her is still operating under that tight control of hers even through the new, subdued air of grief and humiliation which has been adopted into her mannerisms. Her back is held ramrod straight and her eyes are still boring holes of sheer, murderous energy directly into my forehead.

Casually, I uncross my arms, slinking away from the ledge of the desk to approach her, though she's already quite close as it is. I invade her personal space, forcing her neck to crane upward to maintain the eye contact I know she's having more and more trouble maintaining – after all I do know this woman very well. I've studied her intently for weeks. It is not that she is not intimidated, but that she does not show it. Knowing the fear is there gives me all the incentive I need to continue my quest to force her to show it.

Stopping mere centimetres from her where I can feel the heat radiating from her body, I again lift a hand to smooth over the hair on the side of her face. Once more she tenses, and I chuckle low, wondering idly if she will break something, stretching her muscles so taut with defiance. "And why would I do that, Captain?" I demand, grinning, leering down at her. "Why would I let such valuable resources go to waste? I have your ship. I have your crew, your technology, your resources…what's left? What could you…_possibly_… have to offer me in exchange?"

The hesitation is slight, the pause very short. And finally those defiant blue eyes drop from mine to rest on the floor. Her response is hardly heard, a whisper of a reply. A ghost of an answer.

"Me."

I still. Silence descends between us heavy and hard. _I've won_.

The doors are depressurized, hissing apart to admit Prax, as arranged. He is not alone. There are two guards in tow behind him but they have no urgent mission to accomplish. They are merely present finally _at last_ to witness the ultimate defeat of the immensely troublesome _gaharay_ captain who has thwarted our intent from the moment she entered Imperial space.

There's a pleasant buzz settling in my ears, my heart is beating faster with each passing nanosecond, I think, as I force the admission from her again, this time in front of an audience. "I'm sorry, Captain. I didn't hear you. What _exactly_ are you prepared to offer me in exchange for the release of your crew?"

She knows of course, knows what I am doing now, what my ultimate goal is. Her pale cheeks flush crimson and her nostrils flare both in rage and in shame. But her eyes flicker back up to mine and the slumped shoulders straighten painfully, bringing her tiny form even closer to mine. Clearly, painfully so, she repeats in a strong low voice, "You heard me," she fumes, barely retraining herself from attacking me if I'm reading the subtle shift of weight to her lower body correctly. "Me. You can have _me_, Kashyk." At my raised eye-ridges she elaborates, answering the demeaning question before I can verbalize it, "For whatever disgusting purposes your sick mind can invent."

The response she gives, the beautiful clarity of it, fueled by the raging fire of her anger, leaves nothing to interpretation. The not-so-quiet snickers from the far side of the room signal the final act in this drama, at last drawing to a satisfying conclusion. "Well," I breathe, blinking in the aftermath of her unexpectedly explicit response. "I'll have to think about this, now." The laughter I hear is crude and stimulates my own. My hand clenches her upper arm again, and I am in ecstasy at the notion of the real victory, which has yet to come. I raise a pointed finger, trailing it over the tip of her nose and we are still so close that the hand almost brushes my own face. She's glaring me down, pure rage fueling her defiance now. "I'll need to see what I'm being offered first, won't I?"

More snide laughter, uproarious, and she whitens as I slip the ceremonial hunting knife from its sheath at my belt. But she will not argue. I know she won't. She isn't going to do anything to validate my amusement. Too, I think she knows that I'd have her held still if she struggled anyway.

She doesn't flinch, not even when the cold steel buries into the furrow of the "v" in her uniform jacket. Slowly, excruciatingly so, I begin to cut her clothes into pieces. The rented strips of fabric slice easily away and I hold her gaze the entire time, not wanting to miss an instant of her humiliation…

And I'm barely managing to contain myself, the final triumph over her now mere seconds from my grasp. My breathing comes in short, shallow gasps and I re-sheath the knife before allowing my eyes free reign over her exposed flesh. It's so very white.

The captain makes no move to cover herself, no attempt to squirm free of my harsh grip on her arm. Again she repeats her question, quietly, through gritted teeth. "Will you let them go?"

I just cannot seem to contain my mirth. I don't and she does shudder…really shudders then. I do not have to respond verbally – somewhere deep within her she knows the answer already. But she couldn't have taken the chance, couldn't have risked overlooking an opportunity to save her poor, condemned crew.

It's pathetic. Taking hold of her other arm as well, I relish the encouragements, the specific suggestions from my men, who are now leaning forward to get a closer view at the show. I pull her even closer so that we are nearly touching. So that I can feel the little puffs of air her alien lungs are expending tickle the hairs on my chest. My movements are fluid and unhurried. After all, this is the moment of a lifetime, the onset of a victory so sweet. All others will surely pale in comparison, forgotten and replaced by the look of utter mortification on her white face. I want to savour it.

I can smell her perfume. It's faint, familiar now with my having spent so many hours in her company. I think I shall actually miss it when she is gone. The scent exclusive to humans stimulates my nostrils as I bring my lips inexorably closer to hers until we are so near contact that her blue eyes have slipped shut in anticipation-

It is now that I strike, hard and fast, my lips just brushing hers and I murmur, "Not good enough. Sorry, Captain. I'd like to indulge you. But you're just not my type."

She freezes, tensing more if that's even possible. Noting the furious flush sweeping scarlet from her bare chest to her face, my mocking laughter rings out over that of my kinsmen, filling the small room.

She's regarding me with that same expression of betrayal I recall from this very room, from the moment I revealed my deception to her.

"Of course," she acknowledges tonelessly, dropping her gaze to the floor. "That was an act also." Those blue eyes, now dead with the finality of her last hope at freeing her crew crushed, sweep back up from the ground to rest bitterly upon me. "Impressive. Once again, you gave a masterful performance."

I don't think it was that, really, so much as her desperation to believe me. In fact on the scale of performances I've delivered, I'd call my pursuit of Kathryn Janeway mediocre at best. But she isn't finished and I'm pleased she has enough emotion left in her to feel at all the sting of my rejection. I _had_ been worried that I'd broken her a little too well. But then I know this woman, inside and out by now. I know she will never truly give up until her crew is dead and her ship dismantled.

"Why should you be attracted to any _gaharay_? I imagine the idea disgusts you doesn't it?"

I'm amazed at her presumption. I shouldn't be, I know the depth of her delusional pride by now but I am. My mouth drops open, emitting an unsanctioned huff of disgust.

"You really _are_ that arrogant aren't you?" I snort, pushing her back and away from me. She stumbles, so I give her a moment to catch her balance before making myself painfully understood, as she seems to need this concept spelled out for her.

I am beyond wanting to spare her feelings. I aim to crush her, letting my eyes roam derisively over her no-longer-young body. "Try to understand this. You. Are. _Nowhere even close_ to being worth an entire ship let alone my rank and position."

She doesn't move or speak. Her head has lowered and her eyes are fixed to some point on the floor. I continue, the thrill of my victory almost forgotten amidst the sheer pleasure of finally being able to drop this ridiculous act. "You, Captain, are not particularly attractive. You are average-looking at best and you're past your prime." Her jaw tightens, the skin pulling taught over futilely working muscles as she struggles to maintain her composure. "Beyond that, you're far too thin for my tastes. Sorry," I spit, not at all remorseful but filled with the satisfaction of a job finally well done.

The laughter eventually dies down after some few minutes – my own included. I take one last longing look at the sight of her absolutely still, white, mortified and defeated face. She does not look at me again.

It's over. There's no more fun to be had at her expense and I am entirely finished with Kathryn Janeway. The Imperial interrogators can do their worst, I'll make sure to convey that message clearly. Had I requested it, they might have left her admittedly shrewd scientific mind intact but without my intervention she doesn't stand a chance. Those brain probes will destroy her mind if they do not kill her outright.

Moving to reclaim my seat behind the desk that once was hers, I jerk my head toward the entrance beyond her. "Take her back to her cell. She's fair game." I clip, addressing the guards behind her.

I do not watch her leave. My mind already wanders to bigger, more important issues so that I barely register the sound of the doors opening.

And then it hits me. I'd almost forgotten… "Kathryn."

She halts, her bare silhouette framed by the bluer glow of the bridge lighting, waiting. Prax allows this and as I glance up at their retreating forms, I can see he intends to escort her to her cell personally. The thought amuses me. _At least someone will make good use of the worthless bitch_. She doesn't turn but I do not mind.

"That symphony is crap, you know. Mahler is a joke and Tchaikovsky isn't much better."

With that parting comment, they issue her from the room.

One month later, Prax informs me of her successful transfer from Interrogations to the Center. She survived after all. I note the information in the back of my mind, filing it away for future retrieval if I should ever need it. I don't.

I neither see nor think of her again.


End file.
